


A Mutually Beneficial Agreement

by redcandle17



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:45:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1671779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcandle17/pseuds/redcandle17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Sandor both get what they want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mutually Beneficial Agreement

“Please,” Sansa said, grasping the sleeves of his tunic, “I need you.” Her mother and her father and her brothers and sister were all dead. She had no one left. She’d prayed for the gods to send someone to save her, someone to love her. And then the Hound had come. He couldn’t leave her now. 

“Little bird, I’ve done all I can do for you.”

He’d killed Littlefinger, and she was grateful, but she didn’t want to stay in the Vale and she didn’t want to marry Harry the Heir. “Take me home,” she begged. “Take me to Winterfell.”

“Winterfell’s fallen. The Boltons rule the North now.”

“I don’t care. I want to go home. Let them rule, I only want to be left alone.”

“It’s a long journey, and dangerous.”

“You’ll keep me safe.”

“I’ll keep you safe,” he agreed. “But not for nothing.”

Sansa forced down the surge of disappointment and hurt that rose at his words. Of course she’d have to pay him. He was no longer in service to the Lannisters; he needed to earn a living. 

“Littlefinger gave me Aunt Lysa’s jewelry…”

Sandor Clegane took hold of her chin and raised it, making sure she looked at his face. “I don’t want your jewels, little bird.”

Her heart beat faster. He wanted her. She was older now, and Joffrey was dead; the Hound wouldn’t be content with just a song. He wanted to bed her. Sansa remembered the kiss he'd taken the night of the battle years ago. She blushed and nodded her consent. “You may have anything you want of me.”

 

Sandor knew he was going to go to the deepest of the seven hells for this, but it was an opportunity he couldn’t bear to pass up. To be able to fuck Sansa Stark… He was already damned anyway so he might as well do this. 

“We’ll leave now, before Royce sorts everything out and tries to play the gallant and rescue you from me. Gather your things and meet me outside the stables. I’ll see to getting you a horse.”

They rode hard and only when the sun began to set did Sandor look for an inn. It would be wiser to keep off the roads until they’d left the Vale, but he didn’t intend to fuck Sansa on the ground. She deserved better than that. 

He wondered if she was still a maiden. Littlefinger had bragged to everyone who would listen about taking her mother’s maidenhood and Sandor had seen the way the little man looked at Sansa. Not to mention that her betrothed had seemed as lecherous as the late Robert Baratheon. _Are you any better? You’re ugly and so much older than her._ Sandor forced those thoughts away. 

The inn was fairly large and clean, and the stableboys seemed competent enough from the way they handled Stranger. The innkeeper recoiled when he saw Sandor’s face and he approached them cautiously, fearfully. Sandor was used to it, liked it even. Service was fast and the food was good when people expected you to take off their heads at the slightest provocation. 

“A room, a nice clean one, and dinner for two.”

The innkeeper bowed. “Yes, ser.”

“You let him call you ser,” Sansa commented, as they sat at the table nearest to the fire. 

Sandor shrugged. “It’s not worth the bother of correcting them. They never learn.”

“You’re different,” she said. “You’ve changed. You don’t seem so angry anymore.”

The muscles in the burnt side of his face pulled tight as he smiled. “Gregor’s dead.” Maybe tonight when they were lying in bed he’d tell her about the Quiet Isle. The idea of lying in the dark with his arms around her, talking, appealed to him nearly as much as the thought of fucking her did. 

After they finished their meal, Sandor summoned the innkeeper and told him to have a bath sent to their room for Sansa. While the servants carried warm water to fill the tub they’d brought, he left and went to the bathhouse. He bathed for a long time, at first to make sure the sweat and the smell of Stranger and the dirt from the road was gone. Then he lingered to give Sansa time to finish her bath. 

_Don’t lie. You’re afraid to go to her._ He was. He wondered if this was how men felt on their wedding nights, when their brides were awaiting them. No wonder most of them got so drunk. He wanted a drink. He was badly tempted to order wine, but he didn’t want to get drunk and risk losing control. He walked past the common room where men were drinking and went to the room where Sansa was waiting for him.

She was sitting on the bed brushing her long auburn hair when he entered the room. She wore a white dressing gown that made her look even younger and more innocent than she was. _If the Elder Brother could see you now, he’d know he was wrong. You’re still the Hound._ But he had wanted her for so long that it had become a need. And she was willing. _No, she just wants to go home. She’ll let you, but she doesn’t want you._ Sandor stood there, just staring at her. 

“You’ve told me not to call you 'ser' or 'my lord' so what may I call you?” she asked. 

“My name,” he said. “Sandor.”

 

“Sandor,” Sansa whispered, testing the name on her tongue. She’d always called him - thought of him - as the Hound, even when she relived the kiss they’d shared. “Sandor,” she repeated. She decided that she liked the name. It sounded strong. 

Sandor approached the bed and stared down at her for a moment. Then he sat beside her and took the brush from her hand. She closed her eyes as he began to brush her hair. Her lady mother used to brush Sansa’s hair herself. She had not seen her mother since she was eleven and she never would again. There had been servants, but no one had brushed her hair simply because they wanted to. Sansa blinked back the tears that came, not wanting Sandor to think she was crying because of him. 

“What happened to your helm?”

“My helm? Ah, you mean that ugly dog’s head. It was left to mark the Hound’s grave.”

Sansa turned to look at him. “But you’re the Hound,” she said, puzzled.

“I was,” he said. “I’m not so vicious a dog now.” He laughed. 

“You’re not a dog.”

“No more than you’re a bird.”

“You can still call me little bird if you’d like. I don’t mind,” Sansa said softly. Only he had ever called her that. It was special. 

He set the brush down and stroked her hair with his fingers. Then he left the bed to put out the lamp. Sansa wondered whether she should take off her dressing gown. She heard Sandor undressing and there was enough moonlight streaming through the window for her to see the lines of his body as he returned to the bed. 

“Little bird,” he said. Then he kissed her. 

It was soft, gentle, not the brutal kiss she’d imagined. Sansa closed her eyes and lost herself in the kiss. She felt his hands tugging at the ties of her dressing gown and she let him slide it off her shoulders and down her arms. The soft cloth slid off her to pool on the bed, leaving her bare. Sandor kissed her neck, and then guided her to lie in the center of the bed. 

This is what it should be like, Sansa thought, remembering her wedding night after the Lannisters had forced her to wed the Imp. Septa Mordane had taught her that it was a sin to lay with any man but the one you wedded before the gods. But her marriage had never been consummated so she wasn’t really wed. And she had to let Sandor bed her; it was his price for taking her home. Surely the gods would understand. 

She stroked his hair as his mouth moved over her neck and her breasts. When he took one nipple into his mouth and began to suckle it, she gasped. A jolt of something almost too intense to be pleasure shot from her breasts to between her legs. One of his hands had been caressing her thigh and it moved between her legs, touching her lightly. Sansa was beginning to understand why Lady Lysa had screamed so the night she wed Littlefinger. 

“Would you like me to sing for you?”

Sandor stopped everything. He was still and silent for a long moment. Then he said, “Little bird,” and kissed her forehead. “Sing if you want, or sleep.”

Sansa was confused. Everything had been going so perfectly. Had she done something wrong? “Don’t you want me?”

“I shouldn’t have done this. I’m sorry.”

She would commit no sin in the eyes of the gods then. But Sansa was not relieved at the prospect. She was disappointed. “I’ve dreamt of you in my bed,” she told him. “You’re all I have left. I need you.”

To her surprise, he reacted angrily. “I’ve told you I’ll take you to Winterfell,” he snapped. “Don’t act like Cersei.”

Sansa was utterly confused for a moment. Then she understood his meaning. Without thinking about it, she slapped him. Her palm hit the burned side of his face and she was immediately sorry. _What if I hurt him?_ She shouldn’t have hit him. She’d never hit anyone before, and she shouldn’t have started with the only person who still cared for her. But she remembered Cersei Lannister telling her to learn to use the weapon between her legs and Sansa would _never_ do that. And anyway he was the one who’d asked to share her bed.

To her annoyance Sandor _smiled_. “You’re stronger than you look, little bird.”

She should apologize for striking him and beg his forgiveness; it was the only courteous thing to do. But Sansa didn’t want to be courteous; she wanted to scream and hit someone. Instead she began to sob. She needed him, but he didn’t understand that. _He’ll take me home like he promised, but then he’ll leave me._ She pictured herself alone in Winterfell’s empty hall, without her direwolf or her family or even Old Nan or Maester Luwin. Winter had come and Winterfell would be buried under snow; maybe the old gods would take pity on her and turn her into a maiden of ice and she’d stand there forever, the last Stark. 

“Don’t cry,” Sandor said. “You can slap me again if you want, but don’t cry.”

Sansa tried, but she couldn’t stop crying. What use was escaping Littlefinger’s kisses that were never fatherly or marriage to faithless Harry if she’d be alone for the rest of her life? She rolled onto her side, away from Sandor, and wiped her eyes, though it was pointless since more tears fell.

“Sansa?” Sandor’s breath was hot in her ear. “Little bird, please.” He muttered something Septa Mordane might have tried to wash his mouth for saying, and then he said, “Why are you crying? What do you want me to do?”

“Don’t leave me,” Sansa answered, between her sobs. 

“I won’t. I’m right here.”

“I _need_ you,” Sansa said, for the third time that day. “I don’t have anyone else.”

“Your great-uncle…”

“I’ve never met him. I don’t want him, I want you.”

“Sansa, you’re killing me.”

She didn’t know what he meant by that; she’d only hit him once and really not very hard. He could stay with her forever if he wanted to. Her lord father and her lady mother were dead; there was no one to keep him from her. Sansa stopped crying and wiped away the last trace of tears, hoping her eyes weren’t all red and puffy, before she turned to face Sandor. He might agree if she looked pretty. “You could marry me.”

“ _Marry you_?!”

Sansa would be a good wife. Lady Catelyn and Septa Mordane had taught her a lady’s duties, and Petyr had praised how well she managed the household at the Eyrie. But then she remembered that Sandor didn’t care about those things. Her hopes sank and she might have started crying again if she had any tears left. “I have Winterfell,” she said. “And I made little Robert love me more than anyone else; I’d be a good mother.”

“You misunderstand me, little bird.” He kissed her forehead. “I have no doubt you’ll be the perfect wife to some undeserving lord, but I can’t marry you. You’re a great lady – a queen if you want to claim your brother’s crown - and I’m a kennelmaster’s grandson.”

Littlefinger had refused to listen when she told him she didn’t want to rule anything, that she just wanted to be safe. Sansa never thought Sandor Clegane would be the same. She felt empty. 

Sandor sighed. “I’ll stay by your side for the rest of my life if you want me to. I’ll be your faithful dog like I was Joff’s. But don’t tempt me again, little bird. Doing the right thing is damn hard. I won’t marry you for your sake. Do you understand?”

Sansa thought she did. He was trying to be noble like a true knight. She wondered if he’d change his mind if she pointed that out to him. But she was starting to feel bad about slapping him and crying; she’d been behaving like a child instead of a woman nearly grown. So she only nodded. 

“And you don’t need to…bed me.”

“But I want to,” Sansa said. “Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and he wasn’t her husband.”

Sandor looked shocked. Then he laughed. “She nearly lost her head for it too.”

“But Prince Aemon killed Ser Morgil for telling tales. If anyone accused me of anything improper, you would champion me.”

He laughed again, but it was more his old bitter bark than a laugh of amusement, and he sounded sad when he murmured, “What did Littlefinger do to you.”

 

She cupped his face and looked him in the eye when she whispered, “I love you.” 

Sandor wondered if she believed it; he certainly didn’t. He believed what she said about having only him left though. It seemed to him that she wanted the security of his presence as much as he craved the comfort of hers. They could both have what they wanted. 

He kissed her, and was surprised at how passionate her response was. Perhaps she really did desire him; perhaps giving herself to him was not a sacrifice after all. He felt freer, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. She cried out his name as he suckled her teats. It was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. 

He wouldn’t lie to Sansa, wouldn’t utter claims of love. But he wanted her to know how special this was – she was – to him. So he told her, “I think I would brave fire for you, little bird.”


End file.
